writing, not drowning

On pesky viruses and perfect companions

Hmm; no sooner do I take to the blog again than I am knocked almost hors de combat by a virus that has been unpleasantly similar to the one that arrived last September and took nine months to shift. And I don't mean a computer virus. This time, however, I have taken homeopathic action sooner rather than later and, three weeks on, I think the virus has got the message.

So where were we? A month ago - the last time I posted - I was about to fly to Madeira, courtesy of the Grown-Up Children, which I did. It was a delightful, happy week, with the sort of temperatures I love (35 degrees Celsius or thereabouts), and much swimming, a huge amount of reading, and generally relaxing in the sunshine. It was just what we all needed.

We did a memorably unenjoyable all-day mountain trek; unenjoyable owing to the weather (it was the one bad day, rain and mist, so no views) and a rather strange guide, who made us listen (more than once) to his birdcall impersonations in the pouring rain, and who told off-colour jokes. We knew the experience would eventually turn into a family joke, as these things tend to, but at the time . . . 

When I left Funchal, I was still warm and glowing from the sun; I arrived at Bristol Airport in the middle of the night, to be greeted by howling winds and torrential rain. Oh, British weather, what would we do without you to take the shine off things?

As a result, I have been doing only the essentials, that is, walking the dogs twice a a day and trying to remember to keep up my intake of fluid. It was while I was sitting around doing not very much that I found myself missing my dear old cat, Mr C. I didn't write about it at the time but he died of heart failure in March of last year and I still miss him, not least because this has been almost the first time in my life that I have not had a cat or three as part of the family. I thought how comforting  it would have been, when I was at my most under the weather, to have had Mr C sitting on my lap, purring away. He was the most affectionate of cats.

I was very taken with the resident hotel cat in Madeira - a tabby, like Mr C. He (or she) was very popular with the guests on the sun terrace, overlooking the sea where the Walnuts (a term coined by the Son-in-Law) could be found stretched out on loungers every day. (I was with the Walnuts; the Grown-Up Children preferred the more exotic palm tree shaded Garden Pool area.) Hotel Cat was very savvy and absolutely knew how to work a sun terrace. Every evening, one of his (or her) band of devoted admirers would appear with a dainty dish of sardines. Hotel Cat would scoff the lot, lick his paws, then execute a rather fine curl of the tail and stroll off.

At least there were two very special dogs waiting for me when I got back to England; I never under-estimate their importance in my life. As all my viral symptoms have been better in the fresh air and even better by the coast, we have done plenty of walking and, for a few days, when the sun shone last week, we even managed long walks by the seashore.

These days, only one of my dogs, Miss P, does long walks. The Edinburgh Boy is now the Venerable Old Edinburgh Gent and he is 13 today. He is taking it easy, as befits a very elderly Labrador, but there have been a few extra treats. He spends many, many hours asleep and  I often see him doing that doggy dreaming thing, his paws moving as if he is running, accompanied by a series of quiet, breathy 'woofs'. Perhaps he is remembering what life was like when he was in his prime and he too could run along a shoreline and race in and out of the waves. He is the very dearest of dear old boys and I love him more than words can say.

The comfort of stories by the fireside - with Jackie Morris

I knew it would take something special to jolt me out of my seeming inability to write anything at all in recent weeks. I'd reached a point at which everything I thought of writing was dismissed almost immediately as trivial. Well, that is one of the stages of bereavement and one simply has to wait for the leaden feelings to lift and get on with life while waiting for them to move away from centre stage.

And, yesterday, there was something special.

It's five and a half years since I included one of Jackie Morris's exquisite paintings in this blogpost; discovering her work at that time was the source of immense pleasure. Since then I've followed and greatly enjoyed Jackie's delightful blog, We Three, Ginger Cats' Tales. There is now, sadly, only one ginger cat remaining - the redoubtable Elmo - but he and his elderly tabby companion, Max, have been joined by two Bengal kittens . . .

Apart from the feline tales, We Three and Jackie's other blog keep admirers of her work (her words are as inspriring as her paintings) up to date with what she is doing and, at the moment, she is very much on the road. As luck would have it, that road led yesterday to one of my favourite shops, the wonderful Number Seven, run by Jan, her daughter Davina and Davina's husband, Christopher, in nearby Dulverton. Jackie was spending the afternoon at Number Seven, giving readings, discussing her work, and signing copies of her books . . .

including the latest, East of the Sun, West of the Moon.

All of which explains why, an hour ahead of the first scheduled reading, two women of a certain age settled themselves by the fire in Jan's kitchen behind the shop, while Jackie read us The Seal Children, her first book*. I felt about five years old again, lost in the wonder of words and magical illustrations.

And we talked about books, painting, writing, children, travel, cats, the beauty of the Pembrokeshire coast, dragons . . .

and Tibetan bowls. I happened to mention cheetahs and told Jackie about the sanctuary I had visited in South Africa, where I spent time with an adult male cheetah and had fallen in love with these remarkable big cats.

'Have you seen my cheetahs and cherries paintings?' asked Jackie. She showed me one. That's it, I thought, I'm starting a cheetah painting fund.

If there had not been two dear dogs waiting patiently at home for their afternoon walk, I could happily have stayed by the fire listening to stories until teatime. 

As I left the shop, carrying a precious parcel of signed books, I saw Jackie's van parked outside Number Seven and just had to smile.

At four o'clock, the dogs and I walked up to the top of our hill and then had half an hour of what we call 'extreme retrieving' - the object being to tire out the seemingly tireless Miss P; even though it was wet and muddy, I didn't mind one jot. It had been such an uplifting day and a privilege to spend time with someone as gifted as Jackie. But not just gifted, warm, funny and approachable too.

By this morning, the emptiness of the past two and a half months had gone; the sun shone and the dogs and I enjoyed a long walk by the river. We went up to the hill again this afternoon and I stood in the top field and did a 360 degree turn, looking across to all the other hills, disappearing behind each other, in every direction and into the distance, just to remind myself of the beauty of this place. The dogs romped and rolled in the sun and were as happy as I was.

So, thank you Jackie and thanks also to Jan, Davina and Christopher for a memorable Saturday and for inspiring me to start writing again.

If you are visiting Exmoor, make a point of going to Dulverton and calling in at Number Seven - tell Jan I sent you - and don't miss Toy Ahoy!,their shop in Minehead.

*You can find a complete list of Jackie Morris's books here. And there's more to see on Facebook.

'One day like this . . .' and four good things

So, yesterday. I wasn't quite sure how it would all pan out. My beloved cat, Mr C, was back at the vet, a recurrence of a troubling and potentially serious - even fatal - condition. He had been readmitted the previous day for further investigations, not by either of our usual vets but by another member of the team who, unlike our usual vets - both women - does not do warm. He does not reassure. He does not speak kindly and gently to my dear old boy.

But just as I was setting off for an early walk with the dogs, one of the kind vets called to say that there was good news, Mr C was much better, although - if I were agreable - they would like to keep him for another day for an X-ray. She rang again, twice during the day to confirm that his recovery had been sustained.

So, that was the first good thing.

And then it was off to the hospital where I had been treated for breast cancer AKA on this blog as the Massive Inconvenience; it was the day of the annual post-treatment check-up. My Dear Friend, the Only Blonde in the Village came with me for reassurance and distraction. I wasn't anxious; I knew at a deep, instinctive level that I was fine. Nevertheless. . .

The concerned radiographer managed to make the mammograms less uncomfortable than in previous years; no mean feat, as any woman who has had them will tell you. As a late friend of the Only Blonde once remarked, it's akin to having your tenderest part shut in a fridge door. After the mammogram, the examination . . . but the young and rather gorgeous registrar came in smiling, so I knew: the news was good.  Two years down, three to go before I am officially out of the woods but I continue to travel hopefully because it is the only way. The rather gorgeous registrar was followed by the jolly consultant who promptly organised some physio for ny stubbornly frozen shoulder - a side effect of the sentinel node biopsy two years ago and 'general wear and tear'.

Within an hour of our arrival, the Only Blonde and I were out of the hospital and, not for the first time, did I give thanks for the NHS to which I have happily contributed all my life and which gives me the care I need, free at the point of delivery. I may have to worry about paying the heating oil bill and the car service bill and every other big bill but I do not have to fret about finding money for essential healthcare.

So that was the second good thing.

We set off for a delicious and celebratory lunch at the Rock Inn at Waterrow. (Highly recommended, by the way.)

We met again later in the afternooon, when we were walking our dogs, and that is when things started to unravel. Because Miss P, my lovable but slightly bonkers foster dog, a Saluki collie-cross, went AWOL in pursuit of a pheasant. We called, we whistled, we searched, but the minutes and then an hour ticked by. The light was fading. There was no sign of her and the woods fell silent. And then night too fell.

For the next hour I shuttled between home and the ink-black woods, putting up 'dog lost' posters as I went. And then, good things happened. Friends and neighbours helped with the search: the Only Blonde and her husband said that they would drive their 4x4 around and through the wood, along the only vehicle-accessible track. The young gamekeepers who live in the village took details and said they would look out for her. Miss P's dear owners drove over from their village, kitted out for muddy night-walking, with torches, stout boots and warm jackets. We set off again, leaving the other dogs at home, snoozing after their supper.

When we arrived at the wood, we could see the lights of the Only Blonde's 4x4 as she and her husband finished their circuit and suddenly a cry went up: 'She's here; she's here!'

And indeed she was: cold, wet, shivering and frightened, running behind the 4X4 - three hours after she had gone missing.

So we all went home again . . . and I wanted to cry at the kindness of good people. I did cry.

It was the third good thing.

My original intention had been to sit up and watch the results of the US elections unfold - the Only Blonde and I had been united in our hopes for Obama - but I was as exhausted as my little dog. Bed beckoned. I slept through it all but woke to yet more good news and found myself bursting into song. This one in particular, by Elbow, which the choir I sing with learned over many weeks earlier in the year. It's a tricky song to master but once there, it's a fine song to sing and to listen to, as well. It contains this line:

'One day like this a year will see me right.'

Indeed it will.

A fine result, sealed with an equally fine speech.

The fourth good, exceptionally good, thing.

Back to the lost domain

When I first visited Cothay Manor in Somerset last year (and which I wrote about here), I was reminded of Alain-Fournier and the lost domain of Le Grand Meaulnes. I went to Cothay again today and this wonderful house and its beautiful gardens worked their magic once more.

It was a glorious day, with proper sunshine and a cloudless sky, and I was with my Dear Friend, the Only Other Blonde in the Village (who, strictly speaking, is now the Only Blonde in the Village, since I stopped highlighting my hair - after 40 years or so - and discovered that I was no longer any sort of blonde, merely a light brunette). The Dear Friend is off to France next week and, as she will be celebrating a milestone birthday while she is away, we thought that a brief escape from the Village that Time Forgot would be in order, before she goes en vacances.

Cothay was the ideal spot: not too far to drive on a hot day and an antiques and decorative arts fair taking place all weekend. Tickets were extraordinarily good value at £5 a head and, as many of the stands were in the house itself, we were able to step across its ancient threshold for the first time. (And, yes, the interior is as magical as the exterior.)

I was sorely tempted by this vintage silk sari length:

but commonsense prevailed and I held back. And then I spotted this tiny chap:

while the Only Blonde was rather taken with the cricket print, propped against his chair.

We were transported back to a 1940s childhood by a Margaret Tarrant vintage print (think elves in pointy hats, anthropomorphic woodland creatures . . . ). But there was more. This dear old dog on wheels:

and then this fellow, ancient and one-eyed and, presumably once loved:

I want someone else to fall in love with him and take him home. The fair runs until tomorrow (27 June) so there is time; there is hope! 

Cothay still feels very much like the family home that it is; there is a quality of intimacy about it. Sheep wander across the drive:

and dogs (witness this properly Golden Retriever; NB golden, not almost white)

and hens are always in evidence outside the cafe. The hens are not a bit shy and are very well fed; they know just how to endear themselves to visitors:

We didn't do badly either. Large coffees and excellent rolls (ie delicious and very generous fillings). I treated the Dear Friend to a birthday special: a Coronation Chicken-filled roll, which seemed appropriate and which is probably the nearest I will get to anything vaguely Jubilympical. (See how I cunningly avoided using the 'O' word? I have no desire to be clapped in irons or carted off to the Tower or dragged through the courts by any of the sponsors . . .) Coronation Chicken is all the retro rage at the moment. Apparently.

After lunch there was still time to wander round the gardens. We had been talking about Monet's garden at Giverny, which we had both visited, when we spotted this:

and, for a moment, we truly could have been 'lost in France'.

But no visit to Cothay is complete without a sighting of the resident unicorn, which - of course - has magical powers, so I make no apologies for including another photo this time round.

It will take all my willpower not to return tomorrow. But I will be back, hopefully on 9 June, to see Richard III al fresco and, on 16 June, for a garden, plant and food fair, which is raising funds for The Daisy Garland, a charity that provides vital and pioneering support - focusing on the Ketogenic Diet - to children with epilepsy and to their families. You can read more about this year's events at Cothay here.

Meanwhile, an idea that came to me during that very first visit has reappeared; perhaps I should discuss it with the unicorn.

The new housemate

There has been one reason, above all others, for taking my eye off the blog for a month or so, and it is this: the arrival of a new housemate. You will not, I think, be surprised to learn that the new housemate has four rather than two legs and barks (but only occasionally). 

Miss P (for the purposes of this blog, we will call her that and to differentiate her from regular guest, Little Miss P, the Shih Tzu) arrived at the beginning of the year and, since then, has nudged her way into my heart as well as my home.

An indication of this came a couple of weeks ago, when I found myself writing quite spontaneously about Miss P. Here, with just a few minimal tweaks, is what emerged:

I had not been thinking about another dog. I already had the Edinburgh Boy; he was getting on, ten this year - almost elderly for a dog. We would be able to have off-days together, when we didn't go for long walks, especially when rain poured down incessantly as it had done for months, from the beginning of autumn and on and on through winter.

And then the sad, achingly sad, email about Miss P, a dog I had looked after frequently over the past year. A young bouncy crossbreed, with boundless stamina, who ran like the wind. A few kilos of pure energy. A bit of Border collie? A bit of lurcher? A bit of spaniel? Definitely a lot of Saluki. Not my sort of dog, really. Not a Labrador.

Life, however, has its distinct way of shaking you to your core and slamming the unexpected in your face like a splapstick custard pie - but without the laughs.

Miss P's devoted and loving owners had seen their world transmute into something they barely recognised and that they could not have predicted, which meant - and this was the very hardest thing - that they could no longer keep their dog, any dog, for the foreseeable future. But they could not contemplate the thought of their beautiful canine zephyr ending up with strangers who might not love her or understand her they way they had done.

She had been born on, but thankfully rescued from, what is euphemistically called a puppy farm, then fostered and eventually handed over to a rescue centre. And then the lovely owners found her, fell in love with her kind eyes, her silky coat and just the whole sweet-natured shebang of her.

So, she could not possibly go to strangers. Instead she came to me, despite the fact that I would never have chosen her in a 'pick your favourite dog' line-up. But she chose me because that is what rescue dogs do. Best not to fight it, just concede gratefully and graciously.

As it turns out, she is the dog of my dreams, or my dream dog, what you will: a faithful, affectionate, kindly dog, in love with life, with people, with other dogs. A dog who will run every hour of her waking day, if she can, but who will turn on a sixpence and hurtle back to my side like a rocket at the sound of my Acme dog whistle.

I am in awe, watching the exquisite line of her as she races up hillsides and flies across Exmoor's streams, her feathered tail rippling and flowing out behind her .

In the evening, curled up by the woodburner, draped across her beloved companion, the Edinburgh Boy, she sleeps contented, dreaming her doggy dreams.

And I realise that I cannot, now, imagine my life without her.